Sentimental value
by Little-Miss-Wholock
Summary: -Sherlock does not do sentiment. The very idea of it repels him, in some way it seemed to be against his nature. It was a huge weakness, and he would never let it weaken him. - Based after the "The Reichenbach Fall". WARNING: Contains drug use and self-harm references. However I guarantee a happy ending.
1. Chapter 1

**Sentimental value**

Sherlock does not do sentiment. The very idea of it repels him, in some way it seemed to be against his nature. He went by his life solving crime after crime, and in each one a small thread of sentiment had buried itself into the bloodshed. Sentiment was chaos in itself, Sherlock had decided. It was a huge weakness, and he would never let it weaken him. But life, or rather, John Watson had proven him wrong. Sentiment, whether Sherlock liked it or not, was most alluring; and even Sherlock Holmes had fallen into its web. Sherlock exhaled heavily as he sat feeling diminished in a dirty alley, he knew very well that it was sentiment that had brought him here. As he shuffled deeper into his tattered wreck of a blanket, he thought back to his day on the roof-top of Saint Bart's. If it wasn't for sentiment then, Moriarty wouldn't have beaten him. Why did Sherlock have to care so much for Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and of course John?

Faking his death had been easy, leaving John behind thinking he was dead had not. Sherlock assumes that most would say that he had beaten Moriarty, what with faking the jump; but they were wrong. Moriarty may be dead and his assassins may be fooled, but Sherlock was left without the one person that kept him sane; John Watson. Without John, Sherlock had found himself in a state of constant-depression. He did not leave John for his own pleasure; he left John to keep him safe. If the assassins saw John grieving then they would defiantly believe Sherlock's death. Sherlock had spent the last 3 years ridding of Moriarty's remaining assassins, trying to unravel all of his threads.

But being supposedly dead had its downsides; Sherlock could not live the luxury life that he had indulged in for so long. He had been stripped of a warm bed and food whenever he needed it; his only belongings were the same outfit that he had worn when he jumped, which had now been worn thin with use, and his blanket. Sherlock was aware that his hair had become a wild mess, in length it was almost growing beyond his shoulders. Sherlock touched a hand to his chin and felt his tangled beard; would John even recognize him anymore? Even if John did recognize him, Sherlock knew John would be deeply disappointed. He could only expect John to be angry that he had faked his death, but also the tell-tale marks in the bend of Sherlock's elbow were another thing John was going to be angry about. Sherlock had indeed turned to the only thing that could cure him of his emptiness- drugs.

Harsh light blinded Sherlock's eyes as he squinted up at the sky; he blinked repeatedly whilst little white flecks danced across his vision. He took note of his surroundings, grimy bins emitting awful smells that had undoubtedly rubbed off onto to Sherlock in his sleep, and the ambitious buzz of traffic not far away; he was still in the alley that he had fallen asleep in. This was always a good sign, for it had once occurred that Sherlock had awoken in a different place to that which he had fallen asleep. Luckily he had only been moved a few metres away, as he had fallen asleep in the shelter of somebody's door step, and that somebody clearly had not approved of the scenario and had moved him. Sherlock stretched his long limbs and groaned as he discovered new aches and bruises that had formed overnight due to sleeping on nothing but a pizza box. But even the aches could not down his mood; today he was going to see John again.

Deciding when to see John again had proven to be a difficult decision to make, Sherlock had originally decided that he would not visit John until he had completely wiped out all of Moriarty's assassins, but three years on and the deed was still not done; Sherlock needed John. Sherlock had left London soon after he faked his death, a necessary element in chasing down the assassins. But, his decision to see John again had led him back to the city he loved, and also to this alley that he despised. He was only a few streets away from Baker Street, and he knew it was now too late to turn back. Sherlock could not stop worrying about how John would react when he saw him, but he was more worried about how John had coped over the years. Molly, who had helped him fake his death, was the only person aware of Sherlock's breathing body. She texted him for a while sending him updates on how things were, the last text he had received from her read:

**I haven't seen John in the hospital lately; he hasn't been into work for weeks. I asked Greg how John was, but he hadn't seen him either. I might visit him soon… I'll let you know how it goes.**

**Molly xx**

That text had been sent to him two years ago, he had never received another as he was mugged and his phone was taken from him. Sherlock got up onto his feet and quickly chucked his old blanket into one of the trash cans; it was a shock blanket that he had stolen from a crime scene, but he wouldn't be needing it anymore. It wasn't a long walk to 221b Baker Street, and it wasn't long before Sherlock was stood outside the door staring at the familiar black paint. It was a little too late to have second thoughts, yet the spun in Sherlock's head relentlessly. What is John going to think? Will he be happy or angry? Sherlock worried that John would be disgusted by Sherlock, and he would be right to be so. Sherlock became self-conscious of his matted hair and beard, and he scrunched his nose up as he recognised the smell of urine that he carried from where some drunken youth thought it would be a laugh to urinate on the homeless. Sherlock took a deep breath and rang the doorbell; he held his finger on the button for a little longer than necessary, due to his heart thundering in his ears and making him momentarily forget to take his finger off. The sound of footsteps down the stairs only made his heart beat faster, Sherlock frantically tried to deduct what was going on. The footsteps were light yet slow- too delicate for someone of Johns build, more like a women's. The slowness indicated the person was too ill or too old to run down the stairs. It could be a girlfriend of Johns, and jealousy wreathed in the pit Sherlock's stomach just considering it, but Sherlock was sure that John would not be too keen on an older women; the only possibility was that this must be Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's deduction was proven right as the door swung open to reveal a wide-eyed Mrs Hudson, looking frail and stressed.

''Oh, Sherlock!'' She gasped, sounding less shocked then Sherlock would've predicted. ''You do the strangest things!''

And with that she pulled him into a tight hug, Sherlock was surprised to find that he did not want to pull away from her embrace, it was somewhat comforting.

''Where is John, Mrs Hudson?'' Sherlock asked, feeling worried at the fact John had not moved to answer the door.

''Oh he's upstairs, dear. He doesn't answer the door anymore; not fond of visitors.'' Mrs Hudson mumbled, and then she turned her back and scurried back into her flat.

Sherlock walked nervously up the stairs, wondering how he should explain everything to John. A stair creaked loudly under his foot, and he tensed as he heard the sound of a voice that he had longed to hear for so long.

''Who is it? Mycroft if that's you again I'm going to report you for harassment!'' John's tired voice warned.

Sherlock stayed frozen to the spot, he gulped in empty air and tried to talk but his voice cracked. He had no idea how to deal with all this, John sounded so broken, how could Sherlock possibly tell him it had all been fake; that John's years of grieving had been over a live man.

Sherlock soon came to a conclusion; he couldn't.


	2. Chapter 2

John sat awkwardly in his chair, looking across at the empty one before him. He had not touched the chair since Sherlock's death, and had anyone attempted to sit on it, John would yank them away before their derrière touched the worn out fabric. Due to these specific actions, the chair remained alike to how it had been whilst Sherlock inhabited the house; right down to the dent Sherlock's behind had created on the cushion when he had last sat in it 3 years ago.

John didn't know how long he sat there staring at the chair; time was nothing to him anymore. Every day he went to work, did his jobs efficiently, then returned home and drowned out his thoughts with alcohol; he was getting worse than Harry, and that's saying something. He was just about to get up to get another beer, when he heard a sudden creak on the stairs. Whoever was approaching quickly stopped, and surprisingly stayed stationary for a long while. John should probably have been worried, but he was well acquainted with Mycroft intruding on his privacy, and knew that Mrs Hudson wouldn't let anyone dangerous in.

''Who is it? Mycroft if that's you again I'm going to report you for harassment!'' John yelled, growing exhausted of shooing Mycroft away.

There was a long silience, as if the person were stalling; John became wary as he remembered that Mycroft often simply barged in without a care. Time seemed to drag on as the person obviously contemplated whether or not to proceed with seeing John, John grew impatient but did not want to give the intruder the satisfaction of John going to them instead; so he remained sat in his chair.

''I try not to be offended of your accusations of me being Mycroft, but I falter to conclude how we could be mistaken. Ah! Of course, I trust he visits you often?'' A deep voice broke the silience.

John froze. That voice; that beautiful, baritone voice! He recognized it even now. It had to be Sherlock, and yet John had seen him die. John had seen the lifeless eyes. John had attended the funeral.

John stayed silent as he had no idea how to reply, was this some kind of prank? No, John had been sure Sherlock would return, it had seemed so wrong that he had died; but now, after 3 years, John had finally began to accept that Sherlock really was gone. John heard creaking as the person, presumably Sherlock, continued their journey up the stairs. The creaking came to a halt, and the door was slowly pushed open. John felt himself stiffen furthermore, and held his breath as one last footstep told him that Sherlock had entered the room.

John half expected Sherlock to walk towards him and sit on the chair, yet the footsteps ended there and John figured that Sherlock was leaving it to him to choose whether or not he wished to see Sherlock.

John finally let out the breath he was holding, and gathered the courage to stand up and turn around. This move was difficult due to the presence of his newly returned psychosomatic limp, but John liked to think that he had managed it with some level of smoothness. He had scooped up his cane as he stood, and now he leaned on it whilst looking at the floor.

''I am so, so sorry for what I have done, John. If you would please give me a chance to explain, then I-'' Sherlock began.

John cut him off, ''No.'' he said bluntly.

''I-I- what? No John, if you'd let me explain. Then I'm sure you would understand the circumstances that I was in and little choice I ha-''

''No.'' John cut Sherlock off again.

John could hear Sherlock fidgeting before him, possibly growing annoyed at John's arrogance.

''What do you mean by 'no', John.'' Sherlock almost snarled.

John looked up now. Up into Sherlock's pale eyes; and his heart stung as he remembered when he had last seen them, open wide, after Sherlock had fallen.

''I mean no, obviously. No you cannot explain; I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear about it being an experiment, or a test, or whatever your pathetic excuse is.'' John muttered.

''Oh for goodness sakes John! It was not an experiment, or a test. It is your choice if you want to forgive me, but at least let me explain first!''

Sherlock was yelling now, and anger surged deep within John. He took three confident steps forward, wobbling only slightly thanks to his limp, then raised a hand and swung it directly into Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock stumbled backwards into the wall, and touched a hand where John had punched him. John raised his fist for a second time, and aimed his blow at Sherlock's nose. But as his fist flew towards its target, Sherlock's arm suddenly shot up and he caught John's fist in his hand. John lifted up his good leg and kneed Sherlock in the groin and almost smiled as Sherlock gasped in pain. Sherlock deserved to be in pain. Sherlock deserved to feel as John had the past view years; although John was certain that his own emotional pain had been worse than the physical pain he was currently conflicting on Sherlock.

''John, please stop…'' Sherlock gasped, and John immediately froze.

He took a step away from Sherlock, horrified at what his anger had led him to do, and then proceeded to fall backwards onto his backside due to his psychosomatic limp. Sherlock looked down at him worriedly, and held out a hand to help John up.

''Sorry Sherlock, I just…'' John began, as he ignored Sherlock's outstretched hand and helped himself up.

''This is not how I had anticipated today to have gone.'' Sherlock said sadly.

John had to agree, whenever he imagined be reunited with Sherlock it had always been happy and sensational, but then again; emotions never do what you want them to. John had been angry at Sherlock, but only because he cared for him so much. One word sprung into John's mind to describe why their meeting had turned so sour.

''Sentiment?'' John asked, curiously.

''Sentiment.'' Sherlock agreed.


End file.
